/ 


PS 3525 
.05613 
P3 
1922 
Copy * 


International Copyrighted (in England, her Col- 
nies, and the United States) Edition of the 
Works of the Best Authors 

iimiiiMiiiiiiiifiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiiiiniiiMiiiiiiiiiiiimiimiiimiiiiiMiiiiiiiimmiMiiiiiiiiiiimitiii’. 


No. 443 



PASSE 

A PLAY IN ONE ACT 

BY 

McELBERT MOORE 


AU Rights Reserved 
Copyright, 1922, by Samuel French 


* = 


Price 30 Cents 


New York 
SAMUEL FRENCH 
Publisher 

28-30 West 38th Street 


London 

SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd. 
26 Southampton Street 
STRAND 


..mi,,,,,,,,, ... 





THE REJUVENATION OP AUNT MARY. 

The famous comedy in three acts, by Anne Warner. 7 males, 6 
females. Three interior scenes. Costumes modern. Plays 2% hours. 

This is a genuinely funny comedy with splendid parts for “Aunt 
Mary,” “Jack,” her lively nephew; “Lucinda,” a New England an¬ 
cient maid of all work; “Jack’s” three chums; the Girl “Jack” loves; 
“Joshua,” Aunt Mary’s hired man, etc. 

“Aunt Mary” was played by May Robson in New York and on tour 
for over two years, and it is sure to be a big success wherever pro¬ 
duced. We strongly recommend it. Price, 60 Cents. 


MRS. BUMSTEAI)-LEIGH. 

A pleasing comedy, in three acts, by Harry James Smith, author of 
“The Tailor-Made Man.” 6 males, 6 females. One interior scene. 
Costumes modern. Plays 2 % hours. 

Mr. Smith chose for his initial comedy the complications arising 
from the endeavors of a social climber to land herself in the altitude 
peopled by hyphenated names—a theme permitting innumerable com¬ 
plications, according to the spirit of the writer. 

This most successful comedy was toured for several seasons by Mrs. 
Fiske with enormous success. Price, 60 Cents. 


MRS. TEMPLE’S TELEGRAM. 

A most successful farce in three acts, by Frank Wyatt and Wil¬ 
liam Morris. 5 males, 4 females. One interior scene stands through¬ 
out the three acts. Costumes modern. Plays 2 Yi hours. 

“Mrs. Temple’s Telegram” is a sprightly farce in which there is 
an abundance of fun without any taint of impropriety or any ele¬ 
ment of offence. As noticed by Sir Walter Scott, “Oh, what a 
tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.” 

There is not a dull moment in the entire farce, and from the time 
the curtain rises until it makes the final drop the fun is fast and 
furious. A very exceptional farce. Price, 60 Cents. 


THE NEW CO-ED. 

A comedy in four acts, by Marie Doran, author of “Tempest and 
Sunshine,” etc. Characters, 4 males, 7 females, though any number 
of boys and girls can be introduced in the action of the play. One 
interior and one exterior scene, but can be easily played in one inte¬ 
rior scene. Costumes modern. Time, about 2 hours. 

The theme this play is the coming of a new student to the col¬ 
lege, her reception by the scholars, her trials and final triumph. 

There are three especially good girls’ parts, Letty, Madge and 
Estelle, but the others have, plenty to do. “Punch” Doolittle and 
George Washington Watts, a gentleman of color, are two particularly 
good comedy characters. We can strongly recommend “The New 
Co-Ed” to high schools and amateurs. Price, 30 Cents. 

(The Above Are Subject to Royalty When Produced) 


SAMUEL FRENCH, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City 

Ntw aid Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Return 



PASSE 

A PLAY IN ONE ACT 


BY 

McELBERT MOORE 

)» 


All Rights Reserved 

Copyright, 1922, by Samuel French 


New York 
SAMUEL FRENCH 
Publisher 

28-30 West 38th Street 


London 

SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd. 
20 Southampton Street 
STRAND 









To 

MY MOTHER 


3 


CAST 


Victoria King 
Ben King 
Martin King 
Hugh Mason , 
Joe Burke ... 
Marie . 


.. An actress 

. Her husband 

. Their son 

A theatrical producer 

. An inspector 

... Victoria's maid 








PASSE 


Scene: An interior. Victoria King's apartment 
in the East Seventies, N. V. C. 

Time: 5:30 p.m. of a day in September, present 

time. 

The scene is the apartment of the Kings in the East 
Seventies, Nezv York City. It is very tastefully 
furnished. There is a door back r.c., leading 
to the hall, a door R., leading to the library, and 
tzvo doors l., one leading to bedroom, the other 
to the outside. There is a fireplace back c., a 
cosy corner next it. A divan faces fireplace. 
There is a bay zvindozv R. Have one practical 
curtain shade. There is a table in front of 
divan. Lounge chair and table up R. Taboret 

up L. 

At the rise of the curtain there is heard the noise 
of a key in the door r.c. back. Victoria King, 
long a popular actress, a beautiful zooman in her 
thirties, enters. She is fresh from a Thursday 
matinee in “The Easy Road,'’ produced by 
Hugh Mason, and starring her. 

She closes the door softly, and stands against its 

5 


6 


PASSE 


knob for a second — tired. Then with a sigh 
she tosses her hat on the table, and sinks onto 
the divan, throwing her arms up over the back 
as she sobs quietly. 

(Enter Marie, the maid. Victoria quiets.) 

Marie. Madame! You are ill? 

Victoria. No, Marie. Just a bit tired. 

Marie. Oh ! Then I shall bring you a little tea ? 

Victoria. No, dear. I’m going to try and take 
a nap. Wake me at seven, please. 

Marie. Yes, madame. 

Victoria. (Rising) Any mail from Martin? 

Marie. Not since Monday. 

Victoria. Mr. King left this afternoon? 

Marie. On the three o’clock train, madame. 
/^Victoria sighs with relief.) What time will I 
serve the dinner, madame? 

Victoria. (Abstractly) He’s really gone! 

Marie. Pardon, madame. I say, what time will 
I serve the dinner? 

Victoria. Oh. Never mind it to-night, Marie. 
I haven’t any appetite. 

Marie. Oh, madame- 

Victoria. Bring me a pot of black coffee at 
seven. I’m going to the theatre at quarter past. Tf 
anyone comes, I am out. 

Marie. Yes, madame. (She starts r. The door 
bell rings.) 

Victoria. Qh! (Resignedly.) Say I’m out, 
Marie. (Exit Marie back c.) 

Marie. (Off) Madame is not in. 

Hugh. (Off) But I know better, and I must see 
her. (He enters.) Well, I knezv you were in. Just 
caught you entering as I was cutting through the 
park. Conspiracy against me? 



PASSE 


7 

Victoria. Forgive me, Hugh. I was tired and 
didn’t want to see anyone. 

Hugh. Tired? That’s too bad. However. I 
won’t be long. I looked for you in your dressing 
room after the matinee, but Peter told me you were 
the first to leave. 

Victoria. After the curtain, Hugh. I wanted to 
run. I don’t know just how to explain it, but after 
my last scene to-day I actually wished I could forget 
the theatre! Can you imagine! (A deprecating 
laugh.) 

Hugh. Yes, I can. That’s why I am here! 
(^Victoria starts.) 

Victoria. Oh! (Pause.) Won’t you sit down, 
Hugh ? 

Hugh. Thanks. (Sits.) Victoria, your wish to 
forget the theatre—have you ever thought it might 
come true? 

Victoria. (Smiling) The impossible has hap¬ 
pened, Hugh! 

Hugh. You’re right. It has happened—to “The 
Easy Road!" (Grimly.) 

Victoria. You mean the show-? 

Hugh. Has failed. Yes. 

Victoria. Failed? What’s the reason? 

Hugh. You. (Pause.) 

Victoria. You don’t really think I—— 

Hugh. Victoria, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be 
cruel, but there’s nothing to be gained by beating 
about the bush. For weeks you’ve been slipping. 
Your old fire is gone. You’ve lost your grip. 
Please! I know you want to tell me an actress is 
bound to have a bad day now and then—but it’s no 
use when your every day for a month has been a 
bad day! 

Victoria. Hugh, that’s not true! You have no 
right to make such an accusation! 




8 


PASSE 

Hugh. I have the right of a man who put all his 
money on you. But I won’t cry over that. I was 
the gambler, and I’ll take my losses. I chose wrong, 
that’s all. 

Victoria. That’s easy to say, Hugh. Your faith 
in me is hardly what it used to be. 

Hugh. Neither is your acting—what it used to 
he. Would you expect me to keep faith in you after 
a performance like to-day’s? Why, your big scene 
was a flop! 

Victoria. Hugh, be fair! You know Brennard 
missed an important cue. I’ll watch him to-night. 

Hugh. It won’t be necessary. I have asked Miss 
Dale to take your role. T’ll announce you’re ill. 
Now as to that two weeks’ clause in your contract, 
I’ll pay you- 

Victoria. Hugh!—you can’t give it to her— 
you can’t! She’s much too young. It isn’t her role. 
It’s mine! I created it. I lived it. Let me stay 
with it! I’ll show you I haven’t lost my fire. Just 
once more, Hugh ? I’ll put my soul into it. I’ll 
bring it up from failure. Hugh, let me play it again 
to-night—just once again. 

Hugh. I—I’m sorry, Victoria. But I can’t. The 
public won’t stand for it. Last night they said you 
were passe! 

Victoria. Passe! Oh! (Sinks into chair, utter¬ 
ly amazed.) 

Hugh. I know it hurts to hear the truth, but 
I- 

Victoria. (Rising—her eyes blazing) The 

truth ? 

Hugh. Well, the people usually know. 

Victoria. If they only did. (Slowly, not to him.) 

Hugh. (Taking hat and stick) Well, I must be 
off, Victoria. Oh—about that new show for you— 




PASSE 


9 

I—I have decided to abandon plans for it. I’m 
sorry, Victoria. Good-bye! 

Victoria. (Not looking at him, moves her lips in 
a very faint “Good-bye.” Exit Hugh by c. door. 
After Hugh has gone, Victoria stands motionless 
a second , closing her eyes. Then she slowly picks 
up her hat and coat and exits up l., repeating.) 
Passe—Passe! 

(Enter Ben King, the good-for-nothing husband of 
Victoria. He is not exactly sober. Pic looks 
in mysteriously, sees no one around, then enters, 
places his hat on table, takes off overcoat and 
picks up cigarette. He is lighting it as Marie 
e titers.) 

Marie. Oh, Mr. King, I thought you were away. 

King. So did I—I mean so I was. But I’ve come 
back. 

Marie. Everybody will be surprised to see you. 

King. Yes. That’s good. I like to s’rprise peo¬ 
ple. Life’s full of s’rprises. I was s’rprised this 
afternoon when a quarter point, mind you, a measly 
quarter point on the curb took ev-every cent of that 
$200 Victoria gave—er—that I earned last week. 

Marie. Yes, sir—can I put your things away for 
you ? 

King. No. I make it a rule to go wherever my 
things go—and I don’t want to go away. Victoria 
wanted me to go away. Tired of me. That’s nat¬ 
ural. She’s temper—temperm—Marie, I'll tell you 
a secret. I didn’t come back because I lost all the 
money I invested—no—not at all. I came back 
because Victoria’s my wife and I couldn’t bear to 
think of her here alone. No woman should be left 
alone. If anv man left my wife alone Pd kill him. 


10 


PASSE 


But first of all I’ve got to have a club-house sand¬ 
wich and a glass of home brew. 

Marie. Yes, Mr. King—will you have it here? 

King. Now tha’s a foolish question, Marie. Per¬ 
haps you think I’d take it out with me. What put 
such a foolish notion in your head. Never in all my 
life have I seen a gentleman eating a clubhouse 
sandwich on the street. It’s ridic—ridic—silly. 
Home brew is for the home. Don’t you see—home 
—home! 

Marie. Yes, sir. (Starts off r.) 

King. There’s something else I wanted to ask 
you. Let me see—oh, yes. Has Mrs. King returned 
from the theatre yet? 

Marie. Yes, sir—she has gone to her room. 

King. Oh! 

Marie. Shall I tell her you are here? 

King. No. I like to s’rprise people, ’specially 
Victoria. (He starts off l., gets to door when Vic¬ 
toria enters l. quietly.) 

Victoria. Ben! 

Ben. ( Turning) Hello, Victoria! 

Victoria. What are you doing here? 

Ben. I'm enjoying the comforts of home. 

Victoria. Didn’t you understand me to say I 
wanted you to go away for a few weeks? 

Ben. Perfectly, my dear! I understood every 
word you told me- 

Victoria. Then why did you return? 

Ben. I was lonesome. Victoria. 

Victoria. Oh! (Disgusted.) How much of that 
two hundred I gave you this morning have you left ? 

Ben. I would have had every bit and four hun¬ 
dred more if Eureka Oil had gone up a quarter, 
instead of down. 

\ ictoria. You mean you’ve lost it gambling 
again ? 



PASSE 


ii 


Ben. 1 tried to ’nvest it and- 

Victoria. Don't try to explain. I’m sick of 
hearing you!—sick of your lies, your promises— 
sick of everything! I haven’t let you work for years 
because you said your health was bad. Have you 
been so considerate of me? I’ve catered to your 
every whim, stood for a hundred things that only 
increased my burden. Yet when I ask you to give 
me a few weeks alone for rest and study, you show 
your gratitude by tossing my money into a bucket 
shop and coming home drunk! It's not fair! 

(Enter Marie r., with sandwich and glass of home 
brew, which she sets down on table c. Ben 
starts to eat.) 

Victoria. Marie, will you please take my things. 

Marie. Yes, madame. (Gets things, starts off rJ 

Victoria. And never mind that black coffee, 
Marie. I’m not going out to-night. 

Marie. Yes, madame. (Bows out r. Ben looks 
up astonished.) 

Ben. Not going to the theatre? (She nods) 
What are they doing about your part? 

Victoria. Someone else is taking it. 

Ben. Oh—giving you a night off. eh? That’s 
good. 

Victoria. Hugh Mason just left. 

Ben. (Still eating) Hm ! Come to see you about 
the new show ? 

Victoria. No. He told me I was through. 

Ben. (Stops eating) What? 

Victoria. He said I was a failure. 

Ben. He’s crazy! 

Victoria. That his faith in me was gone. He 
chose wrong—for my fire was gone—I had lost my 
grip—I was slipping—I was passe ! 



12 


PASSE 


Ben. God—it—it—isn’t true, is it, Victoria? (In 
a whining, selfish tone.) 

Victoria. (Looks at him, pityingly — then quietly , 
intensely) It’s too much for you, isn’t it? Your 
faith was so touching until you realized your com¬ 
fort might be disturbed. For that’s all you’re think¬ 
ing of. Don’t deny me. You never think of anyone 
but Ben King. Your whole history is a variation of 
one word—selfish. Don’t interrupt me—I’m going 
to tell you something. To-night I was told the crud¬ 
est words an actress can hear—that I was passe— 
that my gift for swaying the audience in my wake 
of laughter and tears—had vanished. The only 
response I got was—pity! ( Emotionally .) Oh! 
(Pause.) T felt it coming —two weeks ago. Scenes 
would get away from me—my mind was always 
somewhere else—I couldn’t listen to speeches. T 
was restless—always distracted—yet I couldn’t over¬ 
come it. I worked and I prayed after each exit for 
the old power that kept my audience at the very 
end of my finger tips ready to respond to my slight¬ 
est whim—but the harder T worked and the more 
I prayed the less I gained—To-night the blow came. 
They said—“You’ve lost your grip! What’s the 
reason?” What’s the reason? (Laughs, then stops 
and turns on Ben.) You know the reason! You 
know why I’ve lost my grip! Go and tell them! 
Tell them they’d never dare to criticize my work if 
you hadn’t tortured me with your drunken parties, 
your fast women, your cheap bootlegging friends, 
your horses, gambling—all at my expense! Don’t 
tell me I didn’t have to put up with it if I didn’t 
want to because I did have to! Do you know why? 
Look at me! You know why! I can’t forget Mar¬ 
tin ! I can’t forget he knows you only as a real man ! 
When he went away to school he loved you—do you 
think he would love you if he returned to find I had 


PASSE 


13 

refused to live with you! No! You are his father, 
but you refuse the responsibility ! Have you ever 
thought what would happen if I too refused! He'd 
hate you! He’d hate you! I’m saving you for him, 
but you aren’t worth it! I’ve kept up this sham for 
his sake and for yours, but I can’t keep it up any 
more— I simply can’t! (Sobs, exits r.) 

("Ben watches her off, then cuts a piece of club sand¬ 
wich, carries it to his mouth, but puts it down, 
and bows his head. Enter Martin, c., quickly. 
He is pale and excited.) 

Martin. Father! 

Ben. (Sober) Martin—my God, how you sur¬ 
prised me ! When did you come ? 

Martin. Just now— I - 

Ben. You’re—you’re trembling! And you’re as 
pale as a sheet. What’s the matter—sick? 

Martin. I—I- 

Ben. Sit down, I’ll ring for a glass of water. 

Martin. No— no — don’t ring ! I- 

Ben. What’s the matter with you, Martin? I’ve 
never seen you so excited in my life. 

Martin. Father — It’s—I—I—I’ve just killed a 
man! (In a voice filled with horror.) 

Ben. What? 

Martin. (Nervously) I came out of the sub¬ 
way at 59th Street and walked up Madison Avenue. 
At 63rd Street two men were standing on the corner. 
I heard one of them say mother was passe and that 
she ought to take up scrubbing floors or something 
she could do. Gee! Then he said something about- 
getting married had put her on the toboggan. He 
said “old King’s just an old soak and probably beats 
hell out of her—she looks like a wreck!” That made 
me boil, dad. When his friend left, he called a taxi 





PASSE 


14 

and got in. While the engine was racing and making 
an awful racket I opened the door and- 

Ben. What happened? 

Martin. I remembered the pistol they gave me 
for the summer camp and I pulled it on him and 
fired! (He takes out the pistol.) He—he crumpled 
up and fell without making a sound! 

Ben. You must have been mad! 

Martin. The taxi shot off and I ran into a movie 
where I stayed a few minutes. 

Ben. How long ago did it happen ? 

Martin. About 15 minutes ago. 

Ben. Was anyone around when you fired? 

Martin. I don’t know. I don’t think so. Oh, 
Dad, what’ll I do? 

Ben. The first thing is to keep quiet. You’re 
sure nobody followed you ? 

Martin. I didn’t see anybody. I didn’t dare 
look in back of me. I came out of the movie with 
the crowd. When anybody glanced at me I went 
cold all over. 

Ben. You didn’t see any policemen? 

Martin. Only one—at the movies. But he never 
looked at me. He was too busy with the crowd. 

Victoria. (Off stage) Marie, please! 

Martin. Mother! 

Ben. Martin—she mustn’t know—it would kill 
her. 

Martin. I—I won’t tell. 

(Enter Victoria r.J 

Victoria. Is Marie here?—why, Martin! 

Martin. Mother. (They embrace.) 

Victoria. My darling. What a surprise! How 
did you get away from school? 

Martin. My finals all came in one week—so I 



PASSE 15 

was able to get away earlier. I’m going to summer 
camp! 

Victoria. It’s so wonderful to have you again! 
Hold me tight, Martin, my boy! You’re trembling, 
aren’t you. So am I, I'guess. Can you feel it? 

Martin. No! , 

Victoria. I guess I’m just trembling inside— 
my heart, perhaps. Have you any other sweetheart 
but me yet, Martin? 

Martin. Just you, mother. 

Victoria. (Holding Iris head up for a kiss) 
Kiss me! Why—how strange! Your eyes! They 
are so queer. I’ve never seen them look so—fright¬ 
ened. (He drops his eyes.) Martin—dear, has any¬ 
thing happened? 

Martin. No! 

Victoria. (Holding up his head) I’m not so 
sure! Your eyes are like Brennard’s in The Easy 
Road—after the murder—murder—Good God ! 
What am I thinking ! Martin—my darling—you are 
sure—there’s nothing wrong ? (^Martin avoids 
speech.) There is something wrong. I want to 
know what it is. I’m waiting, Martin! Tell me, 
dear! 

Martin. I—I— can’t! 

Victoria. You must! Ben? 

Ben. There’s nothing to tell. 

Martin. Oh, mother—there is—I’ve got to tell 
you! 

Ben. Shut up, you fool! 

Martin. A man insulted you, mother, and I—I 
shot him! 

Victoria. (Pause.) Martin—you didn’t kill him 
—you didn’t- ^Martin falls on floor, sobs.) 

Victoria. (Sotto) Oh! (Covers face.) 


(Pause. The door bell rings.) 








i6 


PASSE 

Victoria. The bell! 

Ben. The police! 

Martin. Do you think they’ve found out? 

Victoria. Answer it, Ben. Marie’s gone! No! 
Wait! If it’s the police, we’ve got to do something. 

I can’t give Martin up ! I can’t! 

Ben. Hide him and we’ll bluff it out! 

Victoria. No. They’ll search. (Pause.) I 
know. We’ll pretend I’m rehearsing. Tell them 
who I am. I’ll do the rest. 

Ben. How about Martin’s revolver? 

Victoria. Give it to me! (^Martin gives her the 
revolver. To Ben.) Tell them it’s the one I use 
in the play ! (The hell rings again.) All right. (Ben 
goes to door.) Martin, my darling, courage now. 
We mustn’t fail. ^Ben opens door.) 

(Enter Inspector Joe Burke.) 

Burke. Evenin’! My name’s Burke. Inspector, 
New York police. (Shows badge.) Sorry to disturb 
you, but we’re searching the whole neighborhood. 

Victoria. Won’t you come in, Inspector? 

Burke. Thanks. 

Victoria. What is the trouble—if I am permitted 
to know ? 

Burke. Sure, I’ll tell you. It’s a murder, ma’am. 
A man was shot a little while ago when he was get¬ 
ting in a cab right out here at 73rd Street. Name’s 
Mason, Hugh Mason, the theatre man. 

Victoria. Hugh Mason? Oh! 

• Ben. Mason? God! Why, he just- (Vic¬ 

toria gets his eye.) 

Burke. Just what? 

Ben. Why, er—he just built his own theatre. 

Burke. Hm. Tough luck. The murderer made 
a clean getaway. The taxi driver only remembers 



1 7 


PASSE 

seeing two people around about the time Mr. Mason 
hailed him. One was Mr. Carlton, his partner, who 
has been cleared of suspicion—and the other was a 
young fellow with a dark suit and a light gray hat! 
(^Martin moves slightly in his chair, which is not 
visible to Burke. Victoria covers him. Ben 
brushes Martin's hat behind some books on the 
table.) 

Ben. And he skipped without leaving a single 
clue? 

Burke. No—I wouldn’t say that. 

V ictoria. Oh —you—have—a—clue ? 

Burke. Sure, ma’am. We always have clues. 
Some people say clues is the only thing the New 
York police has ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Victoria. Ha! ha! ha! T see you have a real 
sense of humor, Inspector. 

Burke. Sure and if I didn’t, J’d have the life 
kidded out of me. 

Victoria. Ha! ha! ha! (She turns away, the 
laugh dying on her lips as she sees Martin. She 
closes her eyes in a silent prayer.) 

Ben. Have a chair, Mr. Burke. 

Burke. Thanks. (Sits.) Just for a second, Mr. 
—er—what was the name ? 

Ben. I’m Benjamin King. This is my wife, Vic¬ 
toria King. 

Burke. Not the actress? 

Ben. The same, Inspector. 

Burke. I’m honored to meet you, ma’am. Never 
will I forget you in that play— Love and the Law. 
You were immense. 

Victoria. Thank you, Inspector. You don’t re¬ 
alize how rare it is to be so appreciated. 

Burke. Sav, remember the way you fooled that 
funny looking detective. Ha! ha! ha! 

Victoria. Ha! ha! ha! 




i8 


PASSE 

Burke. My but you showed him up. Them 
stage detectives are great jokes, though. 

Victoria. Not much like the real article, eh? 
Now, if I were to try to fool you —ah! 

Burke. Well, I ain’t boastin’, ma’am, but I don’t 
think it would be the same. Ha! ha! 

Victoria. Ha! ha! 

Burke. (Suddenly sees Martin.) Hello! Who 
are you? 

Victoria. Oh, that’s Martin, my son. Martin, 
dear, this is Inspector Burke. Why have you kept 
so quiet? Headache? Hm. I’m afraid you’re 
reading too much. (Goes to him. Sotto.) Smile! 
Smile! (As before.) Forgive him, Inspector, for 
being so impolite—but I think he’s tired. 

Burke. Is he an actor, too? 

Victoria. Not yet, but he hopes to be. 

Burke. I see. Going to school? 

Victoria. Yes. 

Burke. Where? 

Victoria. Why—Bradford. 

Burke. Bradford, Virginia? 

Victoria. (Scenting trouble) No. Bradford, 
Massachusetts. (^Martin and Ben start.) 

Burke. You’re sure it’s Massachusetts? 

Victoria. Why—of course. Ben, show the In¬ 
spector Martin’s last letter home. It’s on my dresser. 

Burke. Never mind. I guess it’s all right. My 
reason for asking was I found a railroad ticket on 
the corner of Madison and 73rd just after the mur¬ 
der. It’s stamped Bradford, Virginia. (Pause. 
Martin has paled and turns away ; Ben can hardly 
control himself.) 

Victoria. (With an effort) It’s quite a coinci¬ 
dence, isn’t it? 

Burke. Um. 

Victoria. (Brightly) It reminds me of the 


PASSE 


19 


scene in Love and the Law when Hammond proves 
his innocence by showing how the police mistook 

Boston, Mass., for Boston, New Mexi- (She 

stops, for the Inspector has seen the revolver on the 
table and is looking steadily at it.) 

Burke. Is that yours? 

Victoria. The revolver? Oh, yes. That’s the 
one I use in The Easy Road. 

Burke. What’s it doing here? 

Ben. Er—we were rehearsing a scene with her 
when you knocked, Inspector. 

Burke. Hm! Rehearse much at home? 

Victoria. Once in a while, Inspector. When I 
left the theatre to-day the producer told me some¬ 
thing I didn’t like —(With a smile )—we do get 
pulled up short frequently, you know. So the scene 
that seemed to go a little stale I decided to try over 
at home. I can accomplish so much here—Ben and 
Martin give me such wonderful support. 

Burke. And you brought the gun from the the¬ 
ater ? 

Victoria. Yes. 

Burke. Did you fire it in the show to-day? 

Victoria. Yes—once. 

Burke. Blanks—of course? 

Victoria. Of course. 

Burke. Hm. Well—don’t let me interfere. Go 
right on with the rehearsal. If you don’t mind I’ll 
sort of look around the other rooms. You can never 
tell where these fellows will hide. 

Ben. The house is yours, Inspector. I’ll even 
show you the cellar. 

Burke. Look out, I may take you up. 

Ben. Delighted. I got one of the six best cellars! 
Ha! ha! (He starts over r. ) This way. Inspector. 

Burke. Thanks. (He pauses at window.) 

Victoria. That’s 73rd Street. 



20 


PASSE 


Burke. I see. (Glances surreptitiously at win¬ 
dow shade.) 

Ben. This room is the library. Inspector. The 
large volumes used to hold a quart. Ha! ha! (Exit 
Ben and Inspector rJ 

Martin. (In an agonized whisper) Mother, I 
can’t stand it. 

Victoria. Sh! (Consolingly.) My darling! 
Just a little longer. The worst is over. He’ll go 
soon. 

Martin. I don’t think he’ll ever go. It’s driving 
me crazy! 

Victoria. There, now—my boy, my boy. 

Martin. Look, I’m shaking like a leaf. If he’d 
have asked me any questions I’d have had to give 
up, that’s all. It’s a good thing you were here to 
answer him. Oh, you were wonderful, Mother. 
The way you fooled him ! 

Victoria. Any mother would have done it, dear. 

Martin. There’s no mother could do it the way 
you did. My heart was going like a trip hammer. 

I wanted to run, but you stood there, and- Oh, 

Mother, think what would have happened if you 
weren’t such a wonderful actress! 

Victoria. Ah! (Exultantly.) 

Martin. Mother? 

Victoria. Martin. I could hug you for hours for 
saying that. (Embracing him.) 

Martin. It’s the truth. 

Victoria. My champion! (Embracing.) Have 
you come home only to say good-bye? No! I will 
save you. T must save you. Oh, if only I could 
think how! 

(Voices off r. of Ben and Burke .) 

Martin. Mother, they're coming back. 



PASSE 


21 


Victoria. (Suddenly) Oh! (Gets up from 
Martin's side and rushes to the telephone, takes up 
receiver, fakes an incoming call and says just as 
Ben and Burke enter r.) Hello! Yes, this is Vic¬ 
toria. Oh—Cousin Fred? Well, this is a surprise! 
Oh! you are going motoring? Thank you, Fred, 
but I don’t think I’d get back in time for the per¬ 
formance. . . . Oh, I know Ben would, but he’s 
got a fraternity smoker on . . . isn’t it just the way 
things come? . . . Oh, Fred, it just occurred to 
me you might like to take Martin. . . . Yes, just 
back. He’d love it. Oh, that’s dandy. He can 
come right over. . . . Yes, thank you. Good-bye. 
(Puts receiver on hook. To BurkeJ Well, In¬ 
spector, any news? 

Burke. Well, I don’t like to brag about it, but I 
think I have a clue. (Pause.) 

Victoria. Then you found something in there? 

Burke. No. I didn’t find anything — -in there. 
(Lights cigar.) 

Victoria. (Looks at Ben,) Oh! (Then lightly) 
Martin dear, Cousin Fred wants to take you motor¬ 
ing. (Ben engages Burke in silent conversation. 
Burke is half-facing mirror over fireplace.) When 
you return, come right over to the theatre and wait 
for me. (Sotto voce) Martin— (Arranging his tic) 
—have you any railroad mileage left? 

Martin. Nearly half a book. 

Victoria. Good. Listen carefully. Don’t look 
at the Inspector. Leave the back way. If you see 
anyone watching the house outside, go down the 
dumbwaiter and out through the alley. Then take 
the first train back to school. Now—laugh, as 
though we were joking. Ha! ha! 

Martin. Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! 

Victoria. Ha! ha! Wasn’t it the funniest thing! 
(To Burke) 1 was telling Martin of mv first ap- 


22 


PASSE 


pearance with John Drew. (During this speech she 
succeeds in getting the revolver, which is on one 
end of the table.) 1 was sixteen and as thin as a 
rail. No—not thin. Skinny is the word. I was 
supposed to be a Spanish signorita—and I had one 
line—‘What a great pleasure. Signor Almeda’—that 
was John Drew. At my First rehearsal, Mr. Drew, 
who had never seen me before, broke into my one 
line before I had finished and said in his most pol¬ 
ished manner, ‘Ah ! Skinorita !’ Imagine my feel¬ 
ings ! (She covers the revolver with her handker¬ 
chief. ) 

Burke. Skinorita? Ha ! ha ! Pretty good ! 

Victoria. Ready, son? (To MartinJ Now 
don’t forget to come to the theatre! And give my 
love to Cousin Fred! (Sotto voce) Courage now, 
dear! (Martin kisses her and starts off.) 

Burke. You’ll need your hat, won’t you, Sonny? 

Martin. I—I - 

Victoria. You better take it, dear. It’s pretty 
cool. (To Burke. ) He often goes without one. 
(During this speech she hides Martin’s hat in the 
folds of a newspaper.) 1 don’t see it here. Ben, 
look in the den. (Burke watches Victoria in the 
mirror. He sees her hide the hat.) Perhaps you 
didn’t wear one to-day, Martin ? (As Burke turns 
away she shakes her head to Martin .) 

Martin. I—I—think I left it somewhere. 

Victoria. Well, why didn’t you say so before? 
However, run along. Cousin Fred may have an 
extra one. Oh—take this newspaper to him, dear. 
(Gives Martin the newspaper with the hat inside.) 
There’s an interview of me he’d like to read. 

(Martin starts out, but Burke contrives to cross 
in his way to get a match, bumps him, artfully 
knocking the newspaper out of his hand. The 



PASSE 23 

hat rolls out into the middle of the floor. Vic¬ 
toria pales.) 

Burke. Hm ! I thought so! (Goes to door l., 

locks it and puts key in his pocket. Goes to door c. 
and does same.) As I said before, the murderer of 
Hugh Mason wore a dark suit and a light gray hat. 

Victoria. You don’t mean you think Martin - 

Burke. That’s just what I mean! 

Martin. Mother! 

Victoria. Martin! (To Burke ) Why, it’s pre¬ 
posterous ! There may be a hundred boys in this 
block with dark suits and light gray hats. 

Burke. Then why did you try to hide it in that 
paper? 

Victoria. It came there purely by accident. 

Burke. Accident hell! I saw every move you 
made—in that mirror. You’re a pretty clever ac¬ 
tress, Mrs. King, but you’re not dealing with any 
stage dick. Don’t think for a minute you got away 
with that telephone trick! People don’t get mes¬ 
sages with the hook down any more! Ha ! Pretty 
smart way to get rid of the kid.—but I ain’t fooled 
that easy. He stays right here while I tell the Chief 
the big news! (Starts for the telephone.) 

Victoria. (Just as Burke picks up telephone 
she picks up revolver) Stop! Put that telephone 
down, or I'll shoot! 

Burke. (Holding phone) Hm! Another trick, 
I suppose! Do you think I can be fooled by a stage 
gun ? 

Victoria. Wait! It may wound your pride to 
know you were fooled! This is not a stage gun, as I 
told you. It is Martin's gun and (here are two bul¬ 
lets left, and neither are blanks! If you don’t put 
that phone down in one minute, I’ll fire! 




-M 


PASSE 


Burke. Htn! You’re only a woman. You 
wouldn’t dare. 

Victoria. I wouldn’t dare! Just try me! I 
warn you as a mother! This is a crisis to me. My 
hoy’s life is at stake. Nothing else means anything 
to me. Do you understand? Nothing else means 
anything to me now but my son! They tell me I 
am passe as an actress, but I warn you I am not 
passe as a mother! What happens to me I don’t 
care, but you won’t get him! He shot a man be¬ 
cause he insulted me! Do you think I would fail 
him after that? Make one move against him and 
I’ll kill you! 

Burke. (Slowly sets telephone down — uneasily) 

It—it’s all right. Just point that gun down. 

Victoria. After you have given up those keys I 
will! Ben, get them. (Ben gets the two keys.) 
Now open that door. (Points l.J Give Martin the 
key. Martin, dear, it’s your chance. Do as I told 
you and lock the door behind you. 

Martin. Yes, Mother. Good-bye. 

Victoria. Good-bye—good-bye—good-bye. Ben, 
you’d better see him off. 

(Exit Ben and Martin. The door is locked after 

them.) 

Victoria. Now, if you please, sit there, and 
don’t move. (Points to chair R. She sees the tell¬ 
tale hat and picks it up, moving over to the fireplace. 
She tosses it into the fire. They watch it.) 

Burke. (On chair r.) Could I trouble you fort 
a match ? 

(Victoria throws him a box of matches.) 

Burke. (Lighting his cigar) How long have I 
got to sit here? 


PASSE 


Victoria. Until I know lie’s safe. 

Burke. Elm! (Squinting at sunlight) Then 
would you mind pulling that shade? Light bothers 
me. Half-way’s enough. 

(Victoria goes slowly over and pulls down the 
shade. Burke puffs fast as she does so and 
smlies surreptitiously.) 

Burke. Thanks. And now would you mind 
lowering that gun. It’ll be all right. I can’t get out 
—you see how I’m’boxed. You’ve got me. I know 
when I’m licked. Let’s be comfortable and—so¬ 
ciable. 

Victoria. (Slowly lowering gun) T only hope 
he will get away. 

(Suddenly three sharp reports ring out from the 

street below.) 

Victoria. What’s that! 

Burke. They’ve got him! That’s the signal— 
three shots. 

Victoria. Got him? 

Burke. My men below—watching every exit. 
When you pulled the shade halfway it was the sig¬ 
nal to watch the back alley. 

Victoria. When I pulled the shade-- Oh! 

It’s a lie! The—the reports may have been only 
engine backfire! 

Burke. Don’t you think I know a gun when I 
hear it ? If you don’t believe me, take a look out 
the window. I tell you, they’ve got him! 

Victoria. (Rushes to window, looks out, screams, 
and turns away) Oh! Martin! Martin!—my 
darling! I didn’t know. I didn’t know! Forgive 
me, my precious, I did—my—best! (She partly 




2b 


PASSE 

faints, leaning against the table, and drops the gun 
onto the floor.) 

(Burke, smoking his cigar, picks up the revolver, 
opens it and exclaims, the cigar dropping from 
his mouth ) 

Burke. Empty! By Gad! But you’re game, 
Mrs. King! I take off my hat to you. Believe me, 
I’m mighty sorry it’s you has to lose! (He picks 
up the telephone and calls — ) Barclay 2000. I 
hope the kid gets off light, for your sake, ma’am. 
You’re a thoroughbred! It was no joke the way 
you had me goin’. Hello, Chief? This is Burke 
talking. Say, I’ve got some news for you on that 
Hugh Mason murder. Yup! . . . Wh-a-a-a-at! 
No murder! Huh? A blank cartridge? . . . Ma¬ 
son only fainted? . . . He’s there now, eh? Well. 

what do you know about- Huh? Me? Oh, 

nothing—I just had a clue, that’s all. . . . Where 
am I? Say, Chief, ever hear of Victoria King? 
Yah, the actress. Well. I’ve just seen her greatest 
performance! . . . Yessir! . . . and you can tell 
that to Mr. Mason, with my compliments. ’Bye! 
(He replaces the receiver and turns to Victoria.J 
Victoria. (With tears in her eyes) You don’t 
think I’m passe, Inspector? 

Burke. Passe? Say, are you tryin’ to kid me? 


CURTAIN 













DOROTHY’S NEIGHBORS. 

'A brand new comedy in four acts, by Marie Doran, author of “The 
New Co-Ed,” “Tempest and Sunshine,” and many other successful 
plays. 4 males. 7 females. The scenes are extremely easy to 
arrange; two plain interiors and one exterior, a garden, or, if neces¬ 
sary, the two interiors will answer. Costumes modern. Plays 2Vi 
hours. 

The story is about vocational training, a subject now widely dis¬ 
cussed; also, the distribution of large wealth. 

Back of the comedy situation and snappy dialogue there is good 
logic and a sound moral in this pretty play, which is worthy the 
attention of the experienced amateur. It is a clean, wholesome play, 
particularly suited to high school production. Price, 30 Cents. 


MISS SOMEBODY ELSE. 

A modern play in four acts by Marion Short, author of “The 
Touchdown,” etc. 6 males, 10 females. Two interior scenes. Cos¬ 
tumes modern. Plays 2J4 hours. 

This delightful .comedy has gripping dramatic moments, unusual 
character types, a striking and original plot and is essentially modem 
in theme and treatment. The story concerns the advetures of Con¬ 
stance Darcy, a multi-millionaire’s young daughter. Constance em¬ 
barks on a trip to find a young man who had been in her father’s 
employ and had stolen a large sum of money. She almost succeeds, 
■when suddenly all traces of the young man are lost. At this point 
she meets some old friends who ere living in almost want and, in 
order to assist them through motives benevolent, she determines to 
sink her own aristocratic personality in that of a refined but humble 
little Irish waitress with the family that are in want. She not only 
carries her scheme to success in assisting the family, but finds 
romance and much tense and lively adventure during the period of 
her incognito, aside from capturing the young man who had defrauded 
her father. The story is full of bright comedy lines and dramatic 
situations and is highly recommended for amateur production. This 
is one of the best comedies we have ever offered with a large num¬ 
ber of female characters. The dialogue is bright and the play is full 
of action from start to finish; not a dull moment in it. This is a 
great .comedy for high schools and colleges, and the wholesome story 
will please the parents and teachers. We strongly recommend it. 

Price, 30 Cents, 


PURPLE AND FINE LINEN. 

An exceptionally pretty comedy of Puritan New England, in three 
acts, by Amita B. Fairgrieve and Helena Miller. 9 male, S female 
characters. 

This is the Lend A Hand Smith College prize play. It is an ad¬ 
mirable play for amateurs, is rich in character portrayal of varied 
types and is not too difficult while thoroughly pleasing. 

Price, 30 Cents. 

(The Above Are Subject to Royalty When Produced) 


SAMUEL FRENCH, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City 

New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Requni 





BILLETED. 

A camedy in 3 acts, by F. Tennison Jesse and H. Harwood. 4 
males, 5 females. One easy interior sceim. A charming comedy, 
constructed with uncommon skill, and abounds with clever lines. 
Margaret Anglin’s big' success. Amateurs will find this comedv easy 
to produce and popular with all audiencee. Price, 60 Cents. 


NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH. 

A comedy in 3 acts. By Janies Montgomery. 5 males, 6 females. 
Costumes, modern. Two interior scenes. Plays 2p2 hours. 

Is it possible to tell the absolute truth—even for twenty-four hours? 
Tt is—at least Bob Bennett, the hero of “Nothing But the Truth,” 
accomplished the feat. The bet he made with his business partners, 
and the trouble he got into—with his partners, his friends, and his 
fiancee—this is the subject of William Collier’s tremendous comedy 
hit. “Nothing But the Truth” can be whole-heartedly recommended 
as one of the most sprightly, amusing and popular comedies that this 
country boast, Price, 60 Cents. 


IN WALKED JIMMY. 

A comedy in 4 acts, by Minnie Z. Jaffa. 10 males, ? females (al¬ 
though any number of males and females may be used as clerks, 
etc.). Two interior scenes. Costumes, modern. Plays 2Yi hours. 
The thing into which Jimmy walked was a broken-down shoe factory, 
when the clerks had all been fired, and when the proprietor was in 
serious contemplation of suicide. 

Jimmy, nothing else but plain Jimmy, would have been a mysterious 
figurf had it not been for his matter-of-fact manner, his smile and 
his everlasting humanness. He put the shoe business on its feet, won 
the heart of the girl clerk, saved her erring brother from jail, escaped 
that place as a permanent boarding house himself, and foiled the 
villain. 

("lean, wholesome comedy with just a touch of human nature, just 
a dash of excitement and more than a little bit of true philosophy 
make “In Walked Jimmy” one rf the most delightful of plays. 
Jimmy is full of the religion of life, the religion of happiness and 
the religion of helpfulness, and he so permeates the atmosphere with 
his “religion” that everyone is happy. The spirit of optimism, good 
cheer, and hearty laughter dominates the play. There is not a dull 
moment in any of the four acts. We strongly recommend it. 

Price, 60 Cents. 


MARTHA BY-THE-DAY. 

An optimistic comedy in three acts, by Julie M. Lippmann, author 
of the “Martha” stories. 5 males, 5 females. Three interior scenes. 
Costumes modern. Plays 2\\ hours. 

It is altogether a gentle th.ng, this play. Tt is full of quaint hu¬ 
mor, old-fashioned, homely sentiment, the kind that people who see 
the play will recall and chuckle over to-morrow and the next day. 

Miss Lippmann has herself adapted her very successful book for 
stage service, and in doing this has selected from her novel the most 
telling incidents, infectious comedy and homely sentiment for the 
play, and the result is thoroughly delightful. Price, 60 Cents. 

(The Above Are Subject to Royalty When Produced) • 


SAMUEL WRENCH, 28-30 We»t 38th Street, New York City 

New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Request 




The Touch-Down 

A comedy in four acts, by Marion Short. 8 males, 6 females, but 
any number of characters can be introduced in the ensembles. Cos¬ 
tumes modern. One interior scene throughout the play. Time, 2)4 
hours. 

This play, written for the use of clever amateurs, is the story of 
life in Siddell, a Pennsylvania co-educational college. It deals with 
the vicissitudes and final triumph of the Siddell Football Eleven, and 
the humorous and dramatic incidents connected therewith. 

“The Touch-Down’’ has the true varsity atmosphere, college songs 
are sung, and the piece is lively and entertaining throughout. High 
schools will make no mistake in producing this play. We strongly 
recommend it as a high-class and well-written comedy. 

Price, 30 Cents. 

Hurry, Hurry, Hurry 

A comedy in three acts, by LeRoy Arnold. 5 males, 4 females. 
One interior scene. Costumes modern. Plays 2*4 hours. 

The story is based on the will of an eccentric aunt. It stipulates 
that her pretty niece must be affianced before she is twenty-one, and 
married to her fiance within a year, if she is to get her spinster 
relative’s million. Father has nice notions of honor and fails to tell 
daughter about the will, so that she may make her choice untram¬ 
meled by any other consideration than that of true love. The action 
all takes place in the evening the midnight of which will see her 
reach twenty-one. Time is therefore short, and it is hurry, hurry, 
hurry, if she is to become engaged and thus save her father from 
impending bankruptcy. 

The situations are intrinsically funny and the dialogue is sprightly. 
The characters are natural and unaffected and the action moves with 
a snap such as should be expected from its title. Price, 30 Cents., 

The Varsity Coach 

A three-act play of college life, by Marion Short, specially adapted 
to performance by amateurs or high school students. 5 males 6 
females, but any number of boys and girls may be introduced in the 
action of the play. Two settings necessary, a college boy’s room and 
the university campus. Time, about 2 hours. 

Like many another college boy, “Bob” Selby, an all-round popular 
college man. becomes possessed of the idea that athletic prowess is 
more to be desired than scholarship. He is surprised in the midst of 
a “spread” in his room in Regatta week by a visit from his aunt 
who is putting him through college. Aunt Serena, “a lady of the old 
school and the dearest little woman in the whole world,” has hastened 
to make this visit to her adored nephew under the mistaken impression 
that he is about to receive the Fellowes prize for scholarship. Her 
grief and chagrin when she learns that instead of the prize Robert 
has received “a pink card,” which is equivalent to suspension for poor 
scholarship, gives a touch of pathos to an otherwise jolly comedy of 
college life. How the repentant Robert more than redeems himself, 
carries off honors at the last, and in the end wins Ruth, the faithful 
little sweetheart of the “Prom” and the classroom, makes a story of 
dramatic interest and brings out very clearly certain phases of modern 
college life. There are several opportunities for the introduction of 
college songs and “stunts.” Price, 30 Cents. 

(The Above Are Subject to Royalty When Produced) 


SAMUEL FRENCH, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City 

New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free oc Deques! 



The Return of Hi Jinks 

A comedy in four acts, by Marion Short, author of “The Varsity 
Coach,” “The Touch-Down,” etc. 6 males, 8 females. Costumes 
modern. One interior scene. 

This comedy is founded upon and elaborated from a farce comedy 
in two acts written by J. H. Horta, and originally produced at 1 uft’s 
College. ... 

Hiram Poynter Jinks, a Junior in Hoosic College (Willie Collier 
type), and a young moving picture actress (Mary Pickford type), are 
the leading characters in this lively, modern farce. 

Thomas Hodge, a Senior, envious of the popularity of Jinks, wishes 
to think up a scheme to throw ridicule upon him during a visit of 
the Hoosic Glee Club to Jinks’s home town. Jinks has obligingly acted 
as a one-day substitute in a moving picture play, in which there is a 
fire scene, and this gives Hodge his cue. He sends what seems to 
be a bona fide account of Jink’s heroism at a Hoosic fire to Jink’s 
home paper. Instead of repudiating his laurels as expected, Jinks 
decides to take a flyer in fame, confirms the fake story, confesses to 
being a hero and is adored! by all the girls, to the chagrin and dis¬ 
comfiture of Hodge. Of course, the truth comes out at last, but 
Jinks is not hurt thereby, and his romance with Mimi Mayflower 
comes to a successful termination. 

This is a great comedy for amateurs. It is full ef funny situations 
and is sure to please. Price, 30 Cents. 


June 


A most successful comedy-drama in four acts, by Marie Doran, 
author of “The New Co-Ed,” “Tempest and Sunshine,” “Dorothy’s 
Neighbors,” etc. 4 males, 8 females. One interior scene. Costumes 
modern. Plays 2 Y\ hours. 

This play has a very interesting group of young people. June is 
an appealing little figure, an orphan living with her aunt. There are 
a number of delightful, life-like characters: the sorely tried likeable 
Mrs. Hopkins, the amusing, haughty Miss Banks of the glove depart¬ 
ment, the lively Tilly and Milly, who work in the store, and ambitious 
Snoozer; Mrs. Hopkins’s only son, who aspires to be President of the 
United States, but finds his real sphere is running the local trolley 
car. The play is simplicity itself in the telling of an every-day story, 
and the scenic requirements call for only one set, a room in the 
boarding house of Mrs. Hopkins, while an opportunity is afforded to 
introduce any number of extra characters. Musical numbers may be 
introduced, if desired. Price, 30 Cents. 


Tempest and Sunshine 

A comedy drama in four acts, by Marie Doran. 5 males and 3 
females. One exterior and three interior scenes. Plays about 2 hours. 

Every school girl has revelled in the sweet simplicity and gentle¬ 
ness of the characters interwoven in the charms that Mary J. Holmes 
command® in her story of “Tempest and Sunshine.” We can strongly 
recommend this play as one of the best plays for high school pro¬ 
duction published in recent years. Price, 30 Cents. 

(The Above Are Subject to Royalty When Produced) 
SAMUEL FRENCH, 28-30 West 38th Street, New York City 

New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free an Request 



